


Laced Up Just Right

by hailtherandom



Series: Ficmas 2k14 [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Corsetry, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Seriously That's It, corsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2868623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint owns a corset.<br/>Phil finds that corset.<br/>He's really glad he found that corset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laced Up Just Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fira21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fira21/gifts).



> Christmas present for [fira](http://fira211.tumblr.com)!
> 
> I think the title is from the song "It Must Be Halloween" by Color Theory but I don't know anything about the song, I just needed a title.
> 
> This was reposted from just a few minutes ago because I fucked up and backdated it to December 22.

Phil finds the box tucked away in the bedroom closet of Clint’s apartment entirely by accident.

He’s looking for a clean shirt - he hadn’t intended on staying the night, but it was cold out and Clint had fallen asleep pretty early and Phil didn’t want to wake him up or catch a cab. So he had prodded Clint to bed and curled up next to him and they ignored the New York chill together. The fact that it’s Saturday doesn’t mean that they don’t have to go to work, but it does mean that if Phil arrives a few minutes late, it’s not the end of the world.

Well. It usually isn’t the end of the world.

He has a few shirts stashed in Clint’s closet for situations just like this, when staying is a better option than going. Clint’s closet is a haphazard mess of clothes thrown over the closet rail and lining the bottom and extra quivers and compound bows and boxes of something (Clint isn’t good at labeling) and this box, with careful silver script on the side. Phil doesn’t mean to pry, but the box is in the closet and the lid is partway off and that is definitely thin leather and boning peeking out of the cardboard.

Phil stares at it as he buttons the buttons of his shirt. There’s definitely some lacing in there, too. There are only a few things that it could be, and all of them make Phil’s mouth run dry a little.

He looks down and sees that he’s buttoned all his buttons in the wrong holes.

Clint wanders into the bedroom, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and hums at Phil in good morning. Phil manages to keep from jerking in surprise and smiles at the archer. “Morning, Clint.”

“Mor’in’,” Clint says around a mouthful of foam. “Eehw’s cohee im huh kit’en.”

“I’m sorry?”

Clint ducks out of the bedroom and spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the bathroom sink. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he repeats. “If you want any.”

“I’ll pick some up on the way to work,” Phil replies. “Are you taking a cab in?”

The water runs in the bathroom and echoes against the walls. “Nope. I have a STRIKE meeting later today. Don’t gotta be in ‘til one.”

“Sounds nice. Have a mug for me.” Phil separates yesterday’s tie from yesterday’s shirt and does the knot in the reflection of the window. “Should I wait for you tonight?”

“Nah, me and Nat are doin’ stuff.” The cabinet in the bathroom opens and closes, and then Clint shuffles back into the kitchen. “I’m free tomorrow night, though.”

“Sounds good. Tomorrow it is,” Phil says.

Clint comes back into the bedroom with a huge mug of coffee and sets it down on the bedside table before tossing himself back on the bed. He grab his phone and scrolls for any new SHIELD emails, then sets it to the side and drinks deeply from the mug. “Oh, _God_ yes. Are you sure you don’t want any of this?”

“I may die,” Phil deadpans. “I have to go. You know how traffic is.”

“You need to start driving Lola more,” Clint says. “Traffic doesn’t mean a thing when your car can fly.”

“What if she gets stolen?” Phil says. Realistically, he knows that a car that comes anywhere near SHIELD would never be stolen by any typical car thief, but the little part of him that is car owner instead of SHIELD agent whines at him.

Clint rolls his eyes. “Lola could beat the hell out of anyone who tried to steal her.”

“Probably. In the meantime, I’ll take a cab.” Phil reaches down and pulls his jacket on, buttoning the top button. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leans over the bed and nudges Clint’s coffee mug away to kiss him. “Don’t get into any fights or start any international wars.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint mutters and downs another quarter of his coffee mug.

Phil gives him a faint smile and then turns and heads out of the apartment to catch a cab.

Saturdays are pretty uninteresting. SHIELD doesn’t _exactly_ keep a Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five schedule, but there are certainly less people here on the weekends. Phil doesn’t mind. There are fewer emergencies when there are fewer people. The world always seems to want to end on the weekdays. It’s hell on his commute.

In the midst of three hours of signing paperwork, Phil lets one little corner of his mind drift. He thinks about getting Lola’s tires realigned. He thinks about the empty paper cup of SHIELD café brewed coffee. He thinks about swinging by Clint’s apartment to pick up yesterday’s shirt.

He thinks about the box in Clint’s closet.

Phil isn’t nearly as oblivious as most people seem to think he is. He recognizes the boning of a well-made corset when he sees one. He wonders when Clint bought it, or _if_ Clint bought it. Maybe Natasha bought it. Maybe it was a gift.

He signs another form.

He’s pretty sure the leather was black, or some other sort of dark color. Black suits Clint well. Maybe it’s purple. Clint really likes purple, and has a drawer full of t-shirts in varying shades to prove it. Phil kind of hopes it’s purple.

His signature scratches against the paper.

Phil wonders what the style is. Most corsets that he’s come across are overbust corsets, but Clint doesn’t have much of a bust to go over. Maybe it’s just around his waist. That would probably be easier to conceal under clothing.

He dots the ‘i’ in his name a little harder than necessary.

Not that Clint would wear a corset under his clothes. Clint values range of movement more than most people, and Phil doesn’t think it would do any favors for his aim. Clint doesn’t have any posture problems, either, not when he’s actually trying and not slumped on his couch watching movies, so it’s not a medical problem. Clint also works out every day and has a quite alarmingly perfect physique (in Phil’s humble opinion), so it’s probably not a waist-training corset either. Which leaves the fact that Clint might just enjoy looking pretty.

The pen nib bleeds through the paper onto the desk. Phil swears quietly and grabs the napkin that came with his coffee to wipe it off.

He sets the (now considerably smaller) pile of paperwork to the side and sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. He thinks about texting Clint and asking about it, and then decides that would be a bad idea. Perhaps Clint is uncomfortable about wearing corsets, so he keeps it hidden in the closet. Phil doesn’t want to accidentally trigger a reaction in Clint over the phone - it wouldn’t be the first time he's done it, and getting Clint to come around again is difficult at the best of times, let alone without being face to face.

No, he’ll ask next time he sees Clint. At Clint’s apartment. That’s probably tomorrow. That’s fine. Phil is a patient man.

He goes back to signing reports. He doesn’t think about Clint in a corset. Not even a little bit.

Alright, maybe a little bit.

 

Phil manages to put the image out of his mind for the rest of the day once Hill shows up to talk to him about a particularly tricky reconnaissance mission next month. Then he goes and gets dinner from the little Cuban place a few blocks away from his apartment and watches an episode of Dog Cops, since Clint is so determined to get him to enjoy the show, and then takes a very long, very hot shower and goes to bed. It’s a luxury that people with Level 8 clearance are not often afforded, so Phil enjoys it as much as he can. His sheets are clean and soft and he doesn’t have meetings until eleven tomorrow morning, so he doesn’t even bother setting an alarm before he falls asleep.

In the morning, he wakes up in time to stare at his clock for a full five minutes before getting up, getting dressed, getting breakfast, and heading out the door. The cab ride is uneventful and work is uneventful. No one starts any apocalypses and there are no alien invasions. A pretty good Sunday, all things considering.

It’s just that toward the end of the day, when Phil gives in to the niggling urge to look at the clock every few minutes and starts shifting things around his desk instead of actually working on them, he starts thinking about Clint again. He’s gotten a handful of texts since the morning before - mostly work updates, a couple complaints about Manhattan traffic, and one good night message that Phil had fallen asleep and missed - but other than that, Clint’s been on radio silence. It’s not unusual. Phil is very used to Clint retreating for days or weeks at a time, whether because of work or his own personal life.

But that doesn’t mean he terribly enjoys it.

He taps his phone on the desk a few times, then opens the messaging app.

_**[16:44:19 Coulson, P]: Indian at your place tonight?**_

_**[16:46:51 Barton, C]: you buying?**_ __

_**[16:47:22 Coulson, P]: I could be persuaded to.  
**_ _**[16:48:07 Coulson, P]: What do you want?** _

**[16:48:55 Barton, C]: chicken tikka masala**  
 _**[16:49:11 Barton, C]: no wait, tandoori chicken  
** _ _**[16:49:46 Barton, C]: get extra naan** _

_**[16:51:43 Coulson, P]: Be there around 7:30.**_

Coulson smiles gently at his phone and looks at the clock again.

He gets out of the office around six thirty and decides to walk the few blocks to the hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant they frequent. There isn’t much of a line so he sits at one of the little outdoor tables and watches people walk past. It’s nice, sometimes, to just be able to look at a person without having to analyze them for weapons and threat level.

(Not that Phil doesn’t do it anyway. But he doesn’t _have_ to.)

He waits until about seven to place their order, and then gets a cab to Bed-Stuy. The ride is uneventful. No aliens come out of a portal in the sky and try to kill him. No car chases read end him. What a nice, relaxing Sunday. Phil wishes he had them more often.

The cab deposits him outside of Clint’s building and Clint buzzes him up. He passes the takeout bag off to Clint, who does to get plates, and strips out of his suit jacket and tie. He sits down on Clint’s beat-up couch and gratefully accepts a plate of malai kofta. Clint plops down next to him with the paper container of tikka masala and starts eating straight from the box.

“How was your day?” he asks around a mouthful of chicken.

Phil shrugs one shoulder. “Pleasantly uneventful.” He spears a veggie ball with his fork and holds it out to Clint. Clint leans forward and steals it and groans in delight. “No one tried to kill me, blow up Project PEGASUS, or end life as we know it, so I consider it a success.”

Clint raises his fork a little as a victory salute and stuffs more chicken in his mouth.  
Phil chuckles to himself and scrapes another ball through the puddle of sauce at the bottom of his plate.

He lets Clint scarf his order down for a few more minutes before asking, “How about you? How was your weekend?”

“Goo’,” Clint says, then swallows a mouthful of bread. “Good. They introduced a new STRIKE team, so me and Nat took ‘em all to town.”

“To town as in Manhattan?”

“To town as in the gym floors,” Clint says triumphantly. “They’re good but they’re new. They haven’t gotten their asses handed to them enough yet.”

“I’m sure you taught them a valuable lesson.” Phil reaches over and steals a piece of chicken from Clint’s box.

“Damn right we did. Went out for beers to celebrate.”

“I’m glad you got to spend some time with Natasha,” Phil says.

Clint beams over the cardboard edge of his box.

When they finish eating, Phil clears the plates and rinses them off in the kitchen. He comes back to Clint splayed over most of the couch, flipping through channels to land on a football game.

“I didn’t know you liked football,” Phil says, lifting Clint’s feet up so he can sit under them.

“I don’t,” Clint replies. “But this team is from Iowa, not far from where I was born, and they’re called the Hawkeyes.”

Phil lets out a quiet snort of laughter. “Hometown pride?”

“Some of us still have it,” Clint fires back. “Not all of us have to support the Cubs.”

Phil reaches over and whacks him with a pillow.

The Iowa Hawkeyes are up twenty to seventeen when Phil leans his head over to Clint and says, “Hey, Barton.”

“Yes, boss?” Clint says without taking his eyes off the television.

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“I was wondering… There’s a box in your closet next to my work shirts. What’s in it?”

Something in Clint’s face twitches. “There’s lotsa boxes. Be more specific.”

“It’s got silver writing on it, I think it’s silver. The top was off when I was getting dressed yesterday.”

“Ah.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “What’s in it?”

“Why’re you asking?”

“I was just curious. It looked like there was something pretty inside.”

Clint shrugs one shoulder. “Yep.”

“Alright.” Phil knows when to pick his battles and this isn’t a battle that needs fighting. He drapes one arm over the back of the couch. The team that isn’t the Hawkeyes scores a field goal. An ad plays. The Hawkeyes score another touchdown, but fail to get the extra point.

“It’s a corset,” Clint says suddenly.

“What?”

“The box. It’s a corset.”

“Oh.” Phil blinks a few times. “Okay.”

“It’s mine,” Clint says, almost aggressively. “I bought it.”

“Alright,” Phil replies evenly.

“Good.” Clint turns back to the television.

The third quarter ends and goes into the fourth quarter. Both teams score a touchdown apiece. Clint swears at the Hawkeyes for being a disgrace to the name. There’s an ad for Honda. The other team gets a two point conversion.

“I’d like to see you in it sometime, if that’s alright with you,” Phil says.

He keeps his gaze straight ahead. He doesn’t see if Clint reacts to the statement.

“Okay,” Clint says cautiously after a minute.

“Thank you.”

The Hawkeyes get another touchdown. The game ends. Four men in suits discuss tactics on a touch screen, trailing circles and crosses all over the field. Neither Phil nor Clint moves from the couch.

“You know,” Phil starts. “If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to–”

“It’s fine,” Clint cuts him off. “Here, I’ll just…” He scoots back and swings his legs off of Phil’s lap and gets up and quietly pads into his bedroom.

Phil can hear the closet door slide open and then shut again, can hear Clint’s shirt dropping onto the floor (instead of the laundry hamper), can hear Clint’s irritated huffs of breath as he does whatever it is he has to do to get into a corset.

Then Clint clears his throat and Phil turns around on the couch and he lets out a little “oh” in a rush of breath.

The fact that Clint’s still wearing old, threadbare pajama pants takes a little away from the effect, but just a little. The corset itself is deep purple, shifting back and forth to black as Clint breathes in. The boning that Phil had noticed earlier curved inward just a little - just enough to give Clint the air of a slimmed waist, even though he doesn’t really have one. The top is flat front, cut straight across Clint’s chest, and done up with metal clasps all down the center, from top to bottom.

The effect would be even better if Clint didn’t look somewhere between terrified and carefully blank, but Phil will take what he can get.

He motions Clint over to couch and Clint goes, tentatively. He stops just within arm’s reach of Phil, so Phil has to reach out and touch the material. It does feel like leather, well-cured and well-treated and surprisingly soft, edged with what looks like black satin. The stitching on the boning is black too. It matches so well with Clint’s personality that Phil is surprised he’s never seen it before.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Very well-crafted.”

Clint lets out a snort. “Yeah, because that’s what I was looking for.”

Phil glances up at him. “Anything you wear a lot is bound to get some wear and tear. Good craftsmanship is important.”

“Uh huh.” Clint rolls his shoulders. They pop loudly.

“Turn around?” Phil asks lightly.

Clint turns around gracelessly so that Phil can see the back. This is where all the lacing is, what looks like sturdy black leather laces instead of silk ribbons. Phil runs the tip of his index finger down the criss-crossing of the cord. Clint straightens a little more under his ministrations.

“It really is lovely, Clint,” he says eventually.

Clint turns back around and leans his hip against the couch. “Thanks. It was damn expensive, too. Good thing SHIELD pays so well.” His hands are shaking a little under his cavalier attitude.

“I’m honored to have played a part in your purchase,” Phil says solemnly.

Clint snorts again.

“I’m going to put a movie on, do you have any preferences?”

Clint shrugs again. “Whatever’s good. Something funny.”

“Something funny it is.” Phil turns back around and opens up Netflix on Clint’s television.

“Should I, uh… Do you think I should change?” Clint asks. His voice sounds uncertain now.

“If you want.”

Clint hesitates for a long moment, then walks around the couch and sits next to Phil. Phil drapes an arm around Clint’s bare shoulders and puts on _Talladega Nights_. Clint leans back against him, stiff from the corset, and bumps the side of his head against Phil’s. Phil smiles and rests his other hand on Clint’s thigh and squeezes gently.

The movie is very stupid and very funny and about halfway through, Clint asks Phil to unlace him so that he doesn’t break a rib laughing. He puts the corset away carefully in its box and then drapes himself over Phil again and hits play. Suddenly the movie is much harder to concentrate on when Phil can see the imprints of corset boning running up and down Clint’s chest.

Tomorrow is Monday so Phil goes home around eleven to actually get some sleep. He dreams about Clint cinched tight in that corset.

 

It takes a little bit of persuading, but Clint eventually comes around to the idea that Phil genuinely doesn’t mind the corset. His defiance had been tempered a little bit with some underlying embarrassment that Phil had rarely seen on the face of Clint Barton, but now Clint seems at ease again as Phil braces one knee against the edge of the bed and pulls the lacing tight.

They never do anything with it. Phil’s dated people in the past who have seen corsets as something erotic, but Clint just seems to like the little extra constriction. He wears it when they make dinner or when they watch movies or when Phil is filling out classified paperwork that he smuggled out of SHIELD to get a head start on and Clint is waxing his bow strings and sharpening his knives. It makes him sit up straight (for once) and slows his reaction time by about half a second, but other than that, it seems like any other piece of clothing to Clint.

Phil doesn’t mind. It’s a very nice visual to have around.

“Why do you like it?” he asks in bed one night. The corset is back in its box, safely wrapped in tissue paper, but Clint had been wearing it earlier that night as he chopped bell peppers and garlic.

“Natasha says it helps my posture,” Clint says. “Since I was raised in a literal circus tent and all.”

“It does help,” Phil admits. “But that’s not why you bought it, is it?”

“Nah.” Clint runs one hand through slightly sweaty hair. “I just think it feels nice.”

“Because of the constriction?”

Clint hums in agreement. “It’s a… Some sort of sensation thing. Feels nice. Helps me concentrate.”

“I see.”

Phil rolls over and settles his arm across Clint’s chest. Clint wiggles his other arm free from under Phil’s shoulder and tucks it under the pillow.

“You think it’s hot,” Clint says. He doesn’t sound accusing, just like he’s stating a fact.

Phil opens his mouth, and then shrugs a little and nods. “Well, yes. It looks very good on you.”

“You stare a lot when I’m wearing it.”

“Do I? I apologize.”

“You really, really do,” Clint confirms.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Most people aren’t used to men in corsets anymore. Some sort of secret boner thing.”

Phil snorts. “Is it a ‘secret boner thing’ for you?”

“Not really. It just feels good. I don’t care about lace or embroidery or any of that shit,” Clint says.

“That’s fair.”

“You like it, though.”

Phil nods against Clint’s shoulder. “I do. I have a healthy appreciation for your body and seeing it wrapped up like that is…” He licks his lower lip, where Clint can’t see. “It’s very nice, Clint.”

“Hey, now, we just went a round,” Clint says. His eyes look like they're sparkling. “I’m getting old, I’m not ready for another one.”

Phil elbows him gently.

“I’m not asking you to wear it for me, though, alright?” he says. “Yes, I think you in a corset is hot, but I’m not expecting anything, okay?”

“When have I ever worn it just for you, Phil?” Clint replies softly.

 _Never, I suppose_ , Phil thinks to himself as Clint drifts off to sleep next to him

 

It doesn’t really come up again after that. Sometimes Clint wears the corset when they’re hanging around his apartment. Sometimes Phil reaches over to touch him and feels that stiff boning underneath a t-shirt and Clint stiffens a little, but he has a tiny smirk on his face, like he realizes exactly what Phil’s thinking.

Phil has become intimately acquainted with thoughts of the corset and Clint in it. He had been in his own bedroom, cock in his hand, mid-stroke, and texted Clint to ask if jerk-off fantasies about the corset were okay or if Clint wanted to keep it strictly a matter of sensation. Clint had called him to laugh at him and assured him it was fine and since then, Clint gasping in pleasure inside the constraints of the corset has become a regular feature in Phil’s mind.

He thinks about it so much that days when Clint isn’t wearing the corset are mildly surprising. He feels like the archer wears it more often than not these days - more on days where he has meeting and has to slog through SHIELD’s red tape and higher ups, as opposed to days when he and Natasha get to go to the gym and beat the crap out of each other. Phil doesn’t entirely understand why Clint likes it, but he’s certainly not complaining.

“Hey, can you loosen these?” Clint asks after dinner. “Just a little.”

“Sure. Come here.”

Clint turns around and holds his arms out a little so that Phil can untie the knot in the lacing and free some tension. He works the extra bit of cord out evenly over all of the bends in the ties, and then knots it back together at the top. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah, much better. Thanks.” The corset looks a little loose now, slipping just a fraction of an inch down as Clint moves. Maybe tonight isn’t a tight sensation night.

The evening goes on fairly typically and Phil doesn’t notice anything unusual until they’re making out on Clint’s couch and Phil reaches up to grab onto Clint’s hips and the corset is still on.

“Hey, do you wanna get this off?” he breathes.

“No.” Clint captures his mouth in another kiss.

Phil turns his head away to break it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Clint says resolutely.

Phil could swear that his cock actually twitches.

“Okay.”

Clint raises his eyebrows, but then Phil’s kissing him again and he sort of loses track after that.

At some point, Clint rolls off the couch and grabs Phil’s hand and drags him off to his bedroom. He pushes Phil backward onto the bed and climbs on top of him and Phil is distracted for long enough that he only remembers about the corset again because Clint has shoved his shirt off his shoulders and thrown his pants onto the floor and the leather scrapes against his now-bare chest.

“Clint, you–”

“It’s fine,” Clint says as he presses a wet kiss to Phil’s neck.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t want to pressure you.”

“It was _my_ idea.”

“Still…”

Clint rolls his eyes and sits up. Phil allows himself one selfish, shallow second of enjoying the sight of Clint disheveled and wrapped in leather. “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t, and you couldn’t make me. So relax.”

“Okay, okay. I believe you,” Phil says.

“I mean, if _you_ want me to take it off, then I will–” Clint starts, but Phil pulls him back down into another bruising kiss.

“I don’t want that at all.”

“Good, then we’re all in agreement,” Clint says brightly. He pushes himself off of Phil and climbs off of the bed, kicking his boxers onto the floor as he walks to the bathroom. Phil stares blankly after him, blinking, until a small bottle of lube flies through the doorway and lands on the bed next to him. Clint comes back in with a towel and tosses it into Phil’s chest, then crawls back on top of him. “Would you like to do the honors, sir?”

“I would be delighted, Agent Barton,” Phil says. He gropes around for the lube and pops the cap off with his thumb, then gets a healthy squirt of lube in his palm. He rubs his hands together and wraps one around Clint’s cock, giving him a few quick strokes. Clint’s breath catches in his chest and his hips snap forward of their own accord.

Phil taps Clint’s hip with his free hand and Clint shifts up and cants his ass back so that Phil has room to work. He reaches between Clint’s legs and rubs two slick fingers behind his balls, along the cleft of his ass, over tight muscle and back. Clint bucks above him and his entire body lurches forward a couple inches.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, good, it's good. This thing has no give.”

“You can take it off, it’s really fine–”

“Stow it, Coulson,” Clint says. “Come on, I’m good.”

“Alright, alright.” The pad of his middle finger presses against Clint’s perineum and Clint groans and grinds his hips down. Phil keeps the pressure up, rubbing just slightly for a few minutes and jerking Clint off in time until Clint's cock is rock hard and he growls low in his throat.

“If you don’t get on with it, I’m just going to do it myself.”

“I don’t think I’d mind that either,” Phil says wryly, but he concedes anyway. “Bear down.” He rubs his fingers together to spread more lube around, then slowly presses one into Clint, just past the first knuckle. Clint’s muscles tense around him, then forcibly relax. “Roll back.”

Clint pushes his hips down again and tenses and eases in turn, making his body relax for the intrusion. Phil gives Clint’s cock a gentle squeeze, then retrieves the lube and pops the cap open again. He withdraws his hand for just long enough to get them slick again, and then presses a finger back into Clint. It sinks in easier this time, and it doesn’t take a lot of effort for Phil to push it in to the knuckle.

“Good?”

“Good,” Clint says. His voice isn’t straining yet. That means that Phil can move faster.

So he does. He works a second finger in with little hesitation and Clint’s nails dig little half-moon indents into his shoulders, but he doesn’t show any signs of discomfort. His head is bowed since he can’t curl down against Phil. Phil wipes his hand on the bedsheets and brushes a couple of stray strands of hair off of Clint’s forehead.

“Three,” Clint says. “I have a plan.”

“Do you now?” Phil half-asks. Three fingertips prod and Clint’s entrance before pressing up a little.

“Yes, I do, and if you would get a fucking move on, then I could do it,” Clint says.

“Christ, fine,” Phil replies lightly. “Bear down.”

Clint’s muscles flex around his fingers and Phil pushes up, hard. Clint lets out a small shout of surprise and his fingers are hurting Phil’s shoulders where they’re holding on for balance, but Phil doesn’t let up and Clint doesn’t mind. He has good control over his body and the burn and the ache fades fast enough, leaving the bizarre stretching sensation behind.

“Does it hurt?” Phil asks as the tips of his fingers drag downward.

Clint lets out a half-strangled groan as Phil brushes across his prostate. “Nope, ‘m good, I told you, ‘m good. Do that again.”

Phil curls his fingers around and up until he finds the small gland and rubs over it firmly with two fingertips. Clint’s cock, only about half-hard now, twitches with interest. Phil slicks it up again and starts stroking him off again. Clint’s moan is a quiet, broken thing.

Phil lets Clint ride his fingers for a little while, until the resistance starts to fade. His thumb teases the slit of Clint’s cock. Clint trembles over him.

“I’m good now,” he breathes. “Come on.”

“Someone’s eager,” Phil says, like his cock isn’t straining against his stomach too.

“I like having ideas. Move your hand.”

Phil gives one more thrust of his fingers, then pulls them out again and wipes his hand on a towel. Clint carefully leans over to his bedside table and digs a condom out of the drawer, tears the wrapper open with his teeth, and efficiently rolls it onto Phil’s cock. He drips a healthy amount of lube over the latex and spreads it around. Phil lets out a contented sigh.

Clint grunts as he shifts over Phil’s hips, and then sinks down slowly. His nails dig into Phil’s chest and, since he can’t lean forward, his head just falls toward his chest. He pants shallowly against the bite of the leather. Phil settles his hands on Clint’s hips, where the leather ends and skin begins, and squeezes lightly. “Good?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Clint says breathlessly. “Just takes some getting used to.” He shuffles his knees forward a couple inches and settles back. “Fuck, yeah, that’s better.”

The corset doesn’t allow for a whole lot of movement, so Clint’s legs end up having to do most of the work. His muscles slowly begin to shake as he rides Phil - nothing harder than a usual SHIELD workout, but having a limited range of motion isn’t something Clint’s entirely used to, but it’s something that he has to work extra hard to overcome. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on his chest, nicely contrasting the iridescence of the purple leather. Phil hooks his finger under the bottom of the lacing and gives it a little tug.

“Leave it,” Clint says immediately. “It’s as loose as it needs to be.”

“Right, sorry.” Phil immediately pulls his hand away and settles for curving it around Clint’s waist. The leather is well cured enough that it feels almost silky to the touch. Not that Clint would like that, it would probably be too decadent for his taste. But Phil can think about it if he wants to.

“Here, I got you,” he says instead, and bends his knees up, bracing his heels on the bed. Clint leans back against the new brace point and Phil all but yanks him down as he snaps his hips up. _That_ gets a reaction out of Clint, who lets out all of his breath in one go and lets his head fall back. Phil shuffles down under Clint’s weight so that he can get better leverage, and then drives up into him, hard and fast. Clint’s hands fly to Phil’s arms to grab on and keep balance. The flat front of the corset shifts each time Phil thrusts up. He wonders for a second if the inside of the corset is smooth or rough, if it drags against Clint’s nipples every time he moves, and then he puts that thought away very quickly to avoid finishing all at once.

Clint looks thoroughly debauched already, skin flushing dark as he pants. One hand leaves Phil’s bicep to wrap around his own cock, stroking hard and without any particular rhythm. Phil loves it when Clint starts to fall apart. It’s nearly better than the orgasm, to see the man open and without his usual barriers, just raw nerves and pleasure.

“Can you breathe?” Phil grunts, dragging Clint down particularly slowly. From the sound Clint makes, he’s pretty sure he hits his mark.

“Fine, fine, come on, don’t stop,” Clint hisses urgently. He’s working himself over frantically, trying to match Phil’s thrusts and grind himself down as much as he can with no leverage. Phil thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

He reaches up and grabs onto Clint’s arms and pushes sideways sharply. Clint shouts as he hits the bed and Phil rolls them over so that he can properly brace himself and then he slams hard into Clint. Clint can’t arch his back, but he can throw his head back, exposing his neck. Phil leans over and latches onto Clint’s collarbone with his teeth and, in a moment of impulsivity, sucks a dark mark just below where Clint’s shirts usually sit, lurid purple to match the corset.

“Shit, fuck, Phil,” Clint manages in between thrusts, and then he chokes out a low moan as he comes. Phil’s eyes widen halfway through as he realizes that there’s nothing covering the corset, but it’s too late. Most of it is on Clint’s hand, but there is a splash of white on the leather, straight across the metal clasps. Phil feels a little bit guilty about the fact that that’s what tips him over the edge, but hey, what can he do.

He presses his face against Clint’s shoulder, breathing hard, as he rides out the last of the aftershocks. One of Clint’s hands is on his back, fingers trailing over his spine, and the other is gently nudging at his shoulder. He says something that Phil doesn’t entirely hear.

“What?”

“Get off, I can’t breathe,” Clint says again, loudly this time.

Phil scrambles off and pulls out as quickly as he can without injuring Clint. Clint unclips the metal clasps as fast as he can, and then breathes a sigh of relief as the corset falls open. There are definitely visible marks of the boning and the clasps now. Phil bites his lip, then leans down and licks at the row of half-circle imprints along the middle of Clint’s chest. Clint shivers and twitches a little from the overstimulation of the touch. His skin tastes like sweat and leather. It’s intoxicating.

He rubs the heels of his hand over Clint’s chest, making sure that all the pinches and marks get worked out. Clint hums and lifts his arms so that Phil can really dig into the muscle. Phil thinks sometimes that the sounds Clint makes during massages are better than the ones he makes during sex. He thinks that he should do both more often.

Clint pushes himself up enough to tug the corset out from under him and holds it up to examine it. “Shit,” he grumbles as he sees the bit of come on the front. “We got jizz on it.”

Coulson snorts. “I’m sure they’re built to be cleaned.”

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t go around shooting my load all over leather corsets,” Clint says. “Dammit, I hope this doesn’t stain.” He wipes it off with the corner of his towel. There’s still a damp spot, but Phil suspects it’ll be gone by morning.

“Fuck it, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” Clint throws the corset at his closet and it somehow lands draped over the rail.

“I have to be up early tomorrow,” Phil murmurs as Clint settles back down next to him.

“That sucks, I'm sorry. Don’t wake me up, though, okay? I have a night mission tomorrow and I can’t afford to be fucked out and sleepy.”

Phil scoffs. “When have I ever sent you to work fucked out and sleepy?”

“Every time you wake me up in the morning.”

Phil starts to argue, but Clint just covers his mouth with one palm and snuggles tighter against his side. Phil smiles against his palm and wraps his arms around the man instead. Clint sighs through his nose. The stream of air feels cool against Phil’s collarbone and he falls asleep to the rhythmic rush of breath.

 

In the morning, Phil carefully packs the corset in its tissue paper and puts the box in his work bag. He digs a post-it pad out and scribbles a quick note for Clint to leave on his bedside as he heads out for work.

_‘I’ll pay for the cleaning. x Phil’_

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has the most vague-ass references to Clint stimming via compression, which is a technique I've found useful to help with my anxiety (think a low-key version of a hug machine). It doesn't play a significant part in the fic, particularly, but know that slight autistic spectrum Clint was on my mind when I wrote it, I guess.


End file.
